


Closer

by ElliottWitt



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Enthusiastic Consent, Fingerfucking, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Marking, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Bottom, Public Sex, Rimming, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:42:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21577756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElliottWitt/pseuds/ElliottWitt
Summary: Makoa's no stranger to being woken up during odd hours of the night, even within the Apex HQ. He's been trained for these things, after all.What he has not been trained for, however, is waking up in the middle of the night and hearing someone calling out his name.
Relationships: Makoa Gibraltar/Mirage | Elliott Witt
Comments: 18
Kudos: 125





	Closer

**Author's Note:**

> Back at it again on my bull shit!... which is to say apparently nearly 8.5k of what is mostly just porn? Welp. Not enough Miraltar content out there at all, be the change you wanna see in the world, no matter how unloved your ship is!
> 
> A big thank you to Halo for proofing this to best of their ability -- both they and I have had some life issues come up which meant I've not cast as keen an eye over this as my previous works. I've had spinal fusion surgery between now and the last time I've posted, so I'm just gonna blame any drop in quality on that ;) But seriously, big thanks to Halo -- whose art of this particular 'what if....' lead to inspiring this whole fic.
> 
> Quick aside -- Octane is asleep but present during this fic, so please bow out if that ain't your thing. Also regarding the voyeurism, sorry to spoil the PWP (you ain't here for the plot, admit it) but Ell's jacking it whilst thinking of Makoa -- so again, tab out if this ain't your kinda thing! But it becomes clear pretty fast that it's enthusiastic consent, at least I hope to think.
> 
> (Oh and I know gendered dorms wouldn't exist in the future, but PORN WITHOUT PLOT REASONS. Set before S3 of Apex because I began this before my surgery and the intro of Crypto, hehe.)
> 
> Edited 27/11 -- Not sure why Ao3 decided to screw up the italics for the last 3k or so of the fic but HEY hopefully fixed now. Apologies to those who read beforehand.

It’s not uncommon for Makoa to be woken up by the slightest noise, especially during the relatively lengthy periods that he spends sleeping at the Apex Headquarters.

It was part of being a rescue worker -- even before he’d chosen the path of SARAS; throughout his childhood, he’d become well-accustomed to the sound of emergency alerts shaking both his parents awake -- and, inevitably, the rest of the household as well, whilst they geared themselves up and left instructions for his eldest siblings to take care of the others in their wake.

The instinct had only become further entrenched once he had joined SARAS and undergone the vigorous emergency worker training himself. He tended to jolt awake at any small disturbance, but -- again, thanks to SARAS’ unusual hours -- could fall back asleep again in less than a minute.

As a result, the rather boisterous comings and goings of the various Legends, and their irregular sleep schedules never bothered him all that much. Like when Path took it upon himself to patrol the entire headquarters, then pause for several minutes just staring at his human counterparts whilst they slept, his optic glowing bright orange in the dark: you got used to it after a while.

Or when Octavio woke up during the night and went about the process of attaching his robotic legs, either to use the restroom or to inform Ajay across the hallway of whatever stray thought had drifted across his mind during his slumber, as he was often wont to do.

Tonight, Makoa is awoken by the sound of some kind of shuffling. He cracks a single eye open, sleepily checking the bunks across from him but -- no, there was Octacio, face down on the mattress with the pillow over his head and snoring softly. It never fails to amaze Makoa the way that man operated: either at one hundred percent battery or drained to zero. with nothing in between.

He can’t help but glance over towards Caustic’s bunk and -- huh. No sign of him either. Which wasn’t _that_ unusual, he tended to spend most nights doing...whatever it was he that did in his makeshift lab at the HQ. Makoa never really liked to dwell too much over what exactly what took place over there.

But the door to the dorm is closed, which means that the noise can’t have been Caustic returning, and the sound of Path’s telltale clanking joints are conspicuously absent. Bloodhound opted to switch between dorms, albeit they usually slept in the other dormitory, given that it was usually relatively more peaceful.

Which left just Mirage, in the bunk directly across from his. Curiosity has Makoa properly roused now, making him pay closer attention to _what_ exactly is causing the noise that roused him from his sleep.

He can make out what he recognises as the rustling of sheets and then something that sounds like a soft, strained moan.

Makoa snaps to full alertness as soon as he hears _that_. Mirage -- Elliott -- refuses to ever discuss the subject whenever prying journalists try to bring it up, and all of the Legends know well enough to avoid the topic, but --

It had been years since Elliott’s brothers were declared MIA. Elliott could dance around the matter as much as he liked, even amongst his fellow Legends -- his fellow _friends_ \-- but Makoa recognised trauma where he saw it.

Hell, he’d been through it himself. The entire...accident, had brought things into perspective for him. Of course he regretted what had happened -- of _course_ \-- but as his own father always reminded him, sometimes things just happened for a reason. If not for that incident, would Makoa ever have gotten his act together and focused on a vision, on a worthy goal, such as SARAS? His father loved to regale him with tales of how the strength of his new cyberarm had been the critical component to save the day in rescue responses ever since the accident, and, hey.

Even if he was exaggerating.

It had helped coming to terms with accepting what had happened.

Regardless, his own experience meant that there had been more than a few occasions where he had worried about Elliott’s behaviour throughout the time they knew one another. Everyone _knew_ that Elliott preferred his obvious anxiety to go unacknowledged, that he used the cocky persona of Mirage in order to cover up his own insecurities. Again, Makoa was not the type to ever _pry_ , but it didn’t stop him from being concerned about the other man. Or -- well, possibly even more than simply concerned. But past trauma remained a difficult subject to broach between friends, no matter how close you were...

Nevertheless, it leaves him wondering whether Elliott might be having some kind of nightmare, and whether or not he should try and wake him. As he’s pondering this, however, he realises that there’s _another_ noise too, a strangely rhythmic sound, and then Ell lets out another low groan and -- oh.

_Oh._

That was most definitely _not_ the sound of someone having a nightmare.

It’s suddenly all too apparent what Elliott was up to.

His first instinct is to roll his eyes -- yeah, Mirage was notorious for being a relentless flirt who only ever seemed to have one thing on his mind, but _really?_ This was the _shared_ dormitory, could he not sneak out into the showers like a normal person? It was what _he_ did, as well as probably every other one of the Games’ competitors. Seasons lasted a while, it was only human.

But -- and he feels his cheeks start to burn as the realisation dawns on him -- his second instinct is to _look_.

Which -- he most certainly was _not_ going to do. He purposefully squeezes his eyes shut and attempts to block out the noise, the soft panting resonating from Elliot’s bunk, the slight squeaking of his mattress springs each time he --

 _No_. Picturing exactly what Elliott was actually doing was -- _no_. Not a good idea. Whatsoever.

No matter how tempting it might be.

He’d like to mirror Octavio, pull a pillow over his head to help deafen the sounds coming from Mirage’s bunk. But surely the noise of his movements would alert Elliott to the fact Makoa was awake, and he didn’t want to embarrass the other man with the realisation he’d been caught out masturbating.

Which was the only reason he didn’t want to interrupt him. It had nothing to do with wanting to keep listening -- that would be _wrong_.

Makoa bites his lip, and desperately tries to distract himself by thinking of different, safer things. Such as whether he has all his gear ready for the Game tomorrow, and who he might be drafted with. If it’s with any of the other guys, at least _Octavio_ will have gotten a decent night’s sleep, because it was becoming increasingly apparent Makoa wasn’t going to, and Mirage is -- no, _no_ , he was _no_ t thinking about Mirage.

Think about other people. Like Natalie -- ever since she’d designed that interception pylon of hers, he’d wondered if she might be able to help him find a way to improve some of his own shielding tech. Despite her young age, she was by far the most skilled engineer of them all, probably better than even Ell --

God _damn_ it.

It seems like he can’t think of _anything_ without Mirage invading his every thought. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t block out the little pants and soft moans he can hear from across the room, and it draws his attention right back to the other man.

He lets out a quiet exhale, trying to not feel like too much of an awful person for doing this but -- really, this was on _Mirage_ for opting to do this in public in the first place, right? -- then cracks a single eye open. And then the other, because --

There’s no light in the room save for that of the moonlight spilling through the room’s two windows, but that’s more than enough to recognise Mirage in the top bunk directly across from him. And oh _God_ , but he’s actually gone and thrown off most of his damn bedcovers to the side, allowing Makoa to clearly make out his silhouette, one knee bent as he slowly strokes his cock between his legs

It’s been stirring ever since he first realised exactly what Mirage was doing over in the other bunk, but the heat in his gut flares dangerously at the sight of _that_. He’s all too uncomfortably aware of his own dick stirring, and beginning to harden embarrassingly fast beneath his boxers. It’s not doing anything to help alleviate the guilt he’s feeling over catching Elliott -- and now _watching_ \-- in the midst of something that was supposed to be a _private_ act.

His cheeks are burning, and he tries to reassure himself yet again that Elliott probably had _known_ he might get caught doing this in a public dorm, but that doesn’t change the fact that Makoa really, _really_ should not be watching.

He’s about to shut his eyes and stop -- he _is_ \-- when Elliott moves suddenly, reaching for something hidden underneath his pillow, fumble with it for a moment and then pop the cap off whatever it was that he was holding. Which, Makoa was suddenly realising has to be --

Elliott slicks his fingers with the bottle of -- yeah, there was no mistaking it for anything otherwise at this point -- what was _clearly_ lube, before shifting his hips and drawing his knees back up against his chest.

All thoughts of looking away feel suddenly impossible at this point. The sight of Ell’s hole exposed is enough as it is, but then he pushes a single digit the entire way inside all at _once_ , not even bothering to take the time to tease himself first. Ell emits a slight _hiss_ at the sensation, and Makoa tightens his fingers into the bedsheets, biting back a noise of his own.

His cock is straining against the light fabric of his boxers now, and he desperately wishes he could do _something_ : sneak his hand down beneath the waistband and take a hold of himself, roll over so that he could at the very least grind down and get some friction against the mattress -- _anything_. But he’s still too concerned that any noise he might make could alert Elliott to the fact he was well and truly awake.

And at this point -- as embarrassing as the fact might be -- Makoa was mostly concerned that if Elliott realised Makoa could see him -- well, that Elliott would _stop_ what he was currently doing.

Elliott has wasted little time whilst Makoa grappled with his current moral dilemma, and with a barely restrained gasp, slips a second finger inside. Makoa can only stare, transfixed, as Ell whimpers, and tries to grind needily down on his own hand, thrusting his fingers in and out of himself whilst continuing to fuck his dick up into his fist.

Makoa watches as Elliott pumps two fingers out of himself, twice, then three times, before adding a third, throwing his head back against the pillow and making next-to-no effort to mute his cries. He might not be able to see all that much, but the lack of noise in the room -- aside from Octavio’s snores -- meant he could he _hear_ each barely-muffled groan wrenched out of Elliott, the wet noise of his lube-soaked fingers stretching his ass, on top of the continuous rhythmic sound of Ell jerking himself off --

It’s then, that Elliott begins to pant out words that are all of a sudden much more comprehensible.

“M…. _mmm_... _Makoa_ ….”

And in that moment, Makoa goes rigid in shock.

Ever since he’d realised what exactly Elliott was doing, he had never even thought for a split second that -- that he was thinking about _him_. His heart feels like it’s hammering far too loud against his ribcage, to the point he’s convinced Elliot might actually be able to hear it if he was paying enough attention. He must have misheard, right? It was just his own mind playing tricks on him, simply wishful thinking or --

His train of thought is cut off as Elliott manages to slip a fourth finger inside himself and hisses Makoa’s name _again_ , back arching off the bed as he does.

And it’s like a dam just _breaks_.

Makoa sits up and throws off his own sheets, swinging his legs over the side of the bunk and using the banister of the ladder to help ease himself to the floor. He tries to make as little noise as possible, but a glance in Elliott’s direction reassures him that he’s far too preoccupied to take much notice, continuing to fuck himself on his own fingers and letting out a breathy whine each time they thrust deep inside.

He makes his way over to the other bunk carefully, casting one last concerned glance at Octavio’s bed -- no worries there, at least, the guy was _completely_ out. Makoa says a silent prayer of thanks for his own height, because it means he’s able to grip the top of Elliott’s bunk’s ladder, pull himself up onto the second step and be waist-height with the mattress all in one fluid motion.

Elliott’s eyes fly open, and he _freezes_ : knees still pulled up against his chest and his hand suspended between his legs, apparently too shocked to even try and cover himself up. But then his face -- already flushed bright red -- turns utterly _scarlet_. He snaps back to life in an instance, pulling his fingers out of his ass and frantically snatching for his duvet, scrambling backwards against the headboard and into a semi-seated position.

“I-I-I’m -- oh _God_ \-- this isn’t - M-M-Makoa, I’m _so_! S-s-sorry, this isn’t -- it -- _ah_ \--”

Elliott’s face just crumples as he slumps back against the pillows in defeat.

“I-I’m -- ah. Ah, _fuck_. I-I’m _so_ sorry. This is -- this -- it’s _exactly_ what it looks like. I’m _really_ sorry! I-I-I just --”

Makoa cuts him off by hauling himself the rest of the way up onto Elliott’s bunk, shifting his weight so that he’s kneeling in front of the other man. He grasps Elliott’s calves and easily flings them over both his shoulders, relishing the shocked look on his face as he does.

“So,” Makoa declares casually, “where’s that lube?”

Elliott just blinks up at him in stunned silence for a moment, his expression a mix of shock and awe as Makoa grins down at him. He shuffles closer between his spread legs and leans in to lick a long line up the inside of Elliott’s thigh, all the way back up to his knee, lapping up the sweat that had already accumulated on the other man’s trembling thighs with a pleased _hum_.

Makoa kisses the side of Elliott’s knee, and then looks back at him, cocking his head inquisitively. The other man just _stares_ at him, evidently still frozen in a state of complete and utter disbelief, before frantically fumbling beneath the duvet covers he’d tossed to the side. He manages to locate the bottle, handing it over to Makoa, all the while still just watching him as if he can’t believe any of this actually happening.

“M-Makoa…” he stammers out, shakily, “are -- are you -- are you _sure_ this is -- I _mean_ \-- are you ?”

Makoa snatches the lube from Elliott’s hand, running his tongue over his own lips as he drinks in the sight of him. Now that he’s actually able to _look_ , with Elliott’s clearly enthusiastic consent, he’s incredibly eager himself to enjoy the view he was only able to catch shadowed glimpses of from across the room.

Elliott’s always been one of the main _stars_ of the Games, even before he’d achieved Legend status, a media darling from the moment he’d entered King’s Canyon, thanks to the combination of his good looks and charm. It wasn’t like he’d escaped Makoa’s notice -- they’d been friends for some time now, and you know, _perhaps_ Makoa’s mind had wandered on the occasions they hung out together every now and again. Mirage made it difficult _not_ to, what with the constant over-the-top flirting, the winks and playful grins he shot at anyone that caught his eye, not to mention the fact that the other man was undeniably _gorgeous_. Even if he did know it, and took every opportunity that he could to flaunt it.

(That said, the real appeal of Mirage for Makoa, was when he was _Elliott_. When he saw the persona slip away, and glimpsed the man underneath. The man who, after a few beers following a Game, confided how much it meant being a source of joy for Solace, someone to cheer for after everything the War had taken from them. The guy whose face lit up every time he mentioned his mother, the way sometimes Makoa would catch his eye when he knew anxiety was getting the better of him, and most of all, the way he could see a little bit of the fear that seemed to grip him every day fall away when Makoa flashed him a smile.)

He can’t help but take a moment, appreciating that it was _Elliott_ before him right now, not Mirage: Elliott’s muscled thighs twitching around his shoulders, his neglected cock wet with precum, his ass already soaked with lube -- and oh, _God_ , all because he’d been here fantasising about _Makoa_.

Makoa shudders, snatching himself out of his reverie as he rubs his thick fingers together, coating them thoroughly. Elliott is still just staring at him as if he isn’t quite sure whether or not he’s dreaming, and Makoa is _more_ than eager to prove to him that he’s very, _very_ much awake.

He eases a finger inside the other man’s hole, and _hell_ , Makoa can _feel_ how wet and loose he is after his earlier, self-administered preparation.

Elliott has apparently decided to throw any pretence at remaining subtle to the wind now that Makoa’s intervened, because he throws his head back against the pillow and _yells_. Makoa grits his teeth, tries to urge Ell to _hush_ , despite how _desperately_ he wants to hear him cry out like that again. He casts a swift glance again over his shoulder at Octavio and -- huh. Maybe he should stop worrying so much about his fellow Legend, because the younger man was still snoring heavily and showing absolutely no signs of movement, in spite of the carry-on over their side of the room.

All the same, Makoa maintains the effort to stay quiet, pausing to draw in several deep breaths. Elliott may have been working on himself for a while before Makoa stepped in, but it’s been some time since Makoa has done this -- two jobs keeps a man busy after all -- and _God_ , Elliott feels just so slick, so _hot_ like this, it was a struggle to hold himself together.

Especially once Elliott bites down on his lower lip, looks up at Makoa from beneath his dark lashes and pleads in a hushed voice, “ _more._ ”

Makoa swallows thickly, taking in Ell’s flushed face, the desperate look the other man was fixing him with, the encouraging tightening of his thighs around his partner’s shoulders. In any other circumstance, Makoa would worry that such a plea for another digit so soon was over-ambitious. _But_ , he _had_ just watched Elliott ride four of his own fingers practically moments ago. Sure, Elliott’s were slimmer than Makoa’s own, considerably larger hands but -- two should be fine.

Hesitantly, he works in a second and _oh_. There really wasn’t that much resistance after all, Elliott’s hole stretching eagerly around him as he pushes another finger in to meet the first. Elliott _whimpers_ , needily rolling his hips down onto him, desperately trying to fuck himself on Makoa’s fingers.

Elliott being...well, _Mirage_ , and not a man particularly known for his patience, has Makoa impressed with how he hasn’t tried jerk off again: in fact, had even gone so far as to pull his cock and balls back so as to allow Makoa better access. He licks his lips, and locks eyes with the man beneath him, both curious and...unsure as to _what_ exactly Elliott wants from this.

Elliott’s eyelids flutter open, meeting Makoa’s gaze and seemingly understanding the unspoken question there. He shifts himself back up the bed, hooking one arm around the metal bars of the bunk’s headboard behind him, before rocking his hips that bit backwards, pulling his knees tighter against his chest whilst his free hand digs into the rumpled sheets.

He gazes up at Makoa, red-faced and panting heavily and without a doubt, the most beautiful sight Makoa has ever seen.

“More.”

Makoa stares down at him in disbelief. He’s barely pumped his fingers in and out of him half a dozen times now, there’s no way he’s ready for another just yet, regardless of how much prep he’d put in beforehand. But Elliott releases the hand that had been bundling the sheets into a fist, reaches up and clasps Makoa’s bicep -- gasping throatily as he sinks his nails into the other man’s flesh -- and hisses again, “ _more_.”

Well, hell, if it were too much, he could always stop. Gibraltar at least still had enough presence of mind to tell when enough was enough, no matter how greedy Ell seemed to be for it.

Hesitantly, he brushes the tip of his third finger over Ell’s entrance, where his other two were currently pressed inside. Elliott bucks his hips impatiently, encouraging Makoa to push in and deeper. He tries to keep it slow — he _really_ does — but Elliott’s insistent grinding down against him means that it isn’t long before all three of his fingers are buried inside Elliott’s ass.

Makoa pauses to gauge Elliott’s reaction, and to take the opportunity to gather himself. He’s painfully aware of his own untouched cock, rock hard and pre-cum leaking through the fabric of his boxers, but he’s more concerned as to whether Elliott’s impatience had gotten the better of him. But — no, the smaller man was heavily panting and writhing beneath him, his eyes screwed shut but _very_ clearly with pleasure rather than physical discomfort.

GIbraltar let out a shaky breath and, encouraged by Elliott’s apparent satisfaction, begins to fuck him open, pumping his hand between his thighs at a steady pace. Elliott looks ready to come apart already, and Makoa couldn’t help but gaze down at him in rapt fascination: how this absolutely _gorgeous_ man was whimpering and writhing beneath him, his sweat-soaked curls clinging to his forehead, and —

This was all for _him_ , Elliott had gotten himself into this state by fantasising about _Makoa_ in the first place and — oh, to _hell_ with it; if Octavio woke up, the chances were that he’d be far too fixated on rushing across the hallway to inform Ajay of whatever inane breakfast combination he’d dreamt up to notice anything else.

And so, Makoa _curls_ his fingers, watching Elliott’s face hungrily as his fingertips graze against his prostate.

Elliott throws back his head and _howls_ Makoa’s name, louder than ever before, and Makoa finds himself having to bite down on his own lip _hard_ in order to keep himself from answering that cry with one of his own. Instead, he uses his free hand to to clamp down over Elliott’s mouth and muffle his high-pitched keening: never mind Octavio, at this rate, Ell ran the risk of waking the entire damn HQ.

It works, in so far as quieting the other man goes, but Elliott’s dark eyes spark with a look of nothing good. He can _feel_ the corners of Mirage’s mouth twitch upwards into a smirk, and Elliott teases Makoa with a deliberately slow lick across his palm, which has Makoa squeezing his eyes shut and biting back another groan.

Clearly pleased, Elliott continue to trace patterns across Makoa’s palm with his tongue, all the while keeping up his muffled hymn of eager noises and arching his back, rocking back onto his partner’s fingers. He shifts his hips meaningfully, and gazes up at Makoa with a pleading look. And God, if he was _sure_....which apparently he _was_ , given the gleeful gasp Elliott lets out against Makoa’s hand when Makoa presses a fourth finger against the rim of Ell’s hole.

All the same, Makoa can’t help but remain uncertain, despite the other man’s _very_ obvious willingness. Elliott might have managed the deed by himself before Makoa had decided to lend a hand, as it were, but there was a considerable size difference between the two of them. Well, same as before — Elliott could always just tell him were it too much. Just to be sure, Makoa removes the hand he had clamped over Elliott’s mouth, using it to prop himself up on the pillow by the side of Ell’s head; his cock jumping when Ell fixes him with an utterly _filthy_ grin.

 _Gently_ , he slowly eases the tip of his fourth finger in — stopping as soon as Elliott lets out a low _hiss_ of pain. Yet Ell simply shakes his hair out of his face before looking up at him, panting heavily as he insists “ _please._ ”

Makoa swallows a moan, nodding before continuing to slide the rest of his finger inside, mindful of how Elliott reacted to each added stretch of tight muscle. Which he handles _surprisingly_ well — Makoa had figured all that bravado had been Mirage’s typical brand of cockiness. But aside from the odd whimper or curse here and there, he puts up very little resistance, to the point that Makoa’s fourth finger finds itself knuckle-deep in his ass _far_ sooner than he could have ever anticipated. Frankly, Makoa was used to partners needing significantly more time to warm up to his size, wasn’t even sure he’d been with a man who’d demanded _four_ fingers before, and the whole thing has his mind racing as to just _how_ exactly Elliott had built up such a tolerance —

His thoughts are cut off when Elliott _clenches_ around his fingers, whining piteously, his face screwed up in desperation.

“M- Makoa…” he gasps, “I-I need — need _more_ …”

Makoa forces a chuckle, because surely Elliott isn’t asking that they…

“Kinda running out of fingers here, Ell,” he laughs, doing his utmost to make light of it, but Elliott is _keening_ now, still frantically grinding onto Makoa’s fingers, practically in a frenzy —

“No, I — _God_ — “

Elliott’s eyelids flutter open, releasing his hold on the bars of the headboard so that he can reach up and grasp the back of Makoa’s neck.

“ _Please_ fuck me,” he whimpers, fingers digging into the hair at the nape of Makoa’s neck, “ _please_.”

Makoa freezes.

 _Oh_ , is the first coherent thought he can form, and then: _fuck_.

Because of _course_ he wants to fuck the extremely gorgeous man pinned and squirming beneath him, but he hasn’t forgotten that they aren’t exactly in private here. Yes, Octavio was currently proving himself capable of sleeping through an earthquake, and truthfully, he doubted the younger man would even care if he awoke. Likely The worst the pair of them had to fear was teasing in the locker room the following day, if they were noticed at all. All the same, it didn’t take away from the inappropriateness of it all: not only was this public, with a very high risk of getting caught, it was the _workplace_ to top it all off. But..despite the resolve that had driven him to clean up his act following the accident fifteen years ago, Makoa still nursed a rebellious streak he’d never been able to _completely_ eradicate, and so…

He finds himself staring down at Elliott’s mouth, plush lips swollen from just how much he’d been biting down on them, and is struck all of a sudden by the fact that he hasn’t even _kissed_ him yet.

The realisation hits him hard in the chest, and so, resting some of his weight back on his calves to better support himself, he tangles a hand in Elliott’s damp curls, pulling him close and hungrily capturing his lips with his own. Elliott lets out a muffled ‘ _mmmf_!’ of surprise, yet rallies quickly enough, eagerly knotting his fingers in Makoa’s hair whilst his other hand snakes down his muscled back.

Makoa’s lips part for Elliott’s greedy, clever tongue and Makoa feels intoxicated, between the warmth of his willing mouth and the heat of his ass pulsing tight and hot around his fingers.Now that the question of what they both _want_ was clearly answered, neither hold anything back: Elliott wastes no time, scrambling for Makoa’s vest and tugging at it urgently. Makoa has to straighten himself up properly on his knees in order to pull it off, and over his head, which unfortunately means breaking the kiss, as well as reluctantly pulling his fingers free from between his legs. Elliott whines piteously at the loss, but turns his attention almost immediately to Makoa’s boxers, the hand that had been busy exploring the expanse of Makoa’s back now yanking at the waistband hurriedly. His vest discarded and flung to the floor, Makoa — after saying a silent prayer to Caustic for working late tonight given that he was rthe owner of the bed where all clothes were currently being cast down beside — hooks his thumbs in his boxers, and aids his demanding partner in their removal.

He can’t hold back the groan that escapes him when his _still_ as-of-yet untouched cock springs free, not helped by the pleased sound Ell makes as soon as it does. He barely has the chance to tug the damn underwear down and over his knees, so as to kick it aside, before Elliott lunges at him, fisting one hand in Makoa’s hair and pulling the larger man right back down on top of him, whilst the other one trails down his chest, abdomen, all the way to his partner’s cock.

Makoa cries out in spite of himself — it’s becoming increasingly difficult to remember that he was supposed to be staying quiet. But he’s been hard for what feels like an eternity, and Elliott is apparently keen to reward that patience, wrapping slim, elegant fingers around his full length with a throaty gasp of delight. Makoa’s mouth finds Elliott’s, just as the other thumbs the slit of his dick, humming appreciatively against Makoa’s lips as he does so.

Usually, Makoa likes to tease this process out a little longer. After all, he was _known_ for being the man who couldn’t be moved. And with someone like Elliott…his breath hitches as the man in question begins to stroke the length of his cock, pumping his hips up and — _fuck_ — _grinding_ both their cocks against one another.

 _Fuck_.

Someone as demanding as Elliott, he could have a hell of a lot of fun teaching exactly what a virtue patience could be. But maybe not tonight.

He tells himself it’s due to their public setting, as opposed to a lack of willpower on his part, as he draws back to fumble for the lube in the bedsheets.

Repeats it to himself again, when he sits back on his calves, slicking his dick whilst Elliott watches him _ravenously_ , those gorgeous lips parting in rapt fascination as he gazes at Makoa’s cock.

 _Try and move me_ , Gibraltar liked to taunt opponents in the Games, _that’ll be fun_. And yet here he was, having to hold back with everything he has just to keep himself from pumping his own cock and spilling all over Elliott’s chest from just the damn _sight_ of him.

He has to shut his eyes for a moment, inhale sharply and try to block out the urgency blazing dark and hungry in Elliott’s eyes. When he opens them again, Elliott is licking his lips as he stares at Makoa pumping his own cock — before flushing the most incredibly endearing shade of red once he catches himself being watched.

Fuck. Either they did this now, or never mind being caught out, Makoa was going to end up coming practically untouched like a goddamn teenager.

With one last curl of his fingers that leaves Elliott barely biting back a scream, Makoa pulls his fingers out, and uses his hand to gently push Ell’s shoulder, ease him back against the mattress. His legs remain wrapped around Makoa’s broad shoulders, thighs twitching occasionally in anticipation, whilst Makoa settles himself between, giving his cock a few more strokes as he lines himself up. Elliott is a _mess_ ; arching his back and fucking his hips up into nothing, but he manages a shaky, encouraging smile at Makoa all the same.

That more than anything threatens to push Makoa over the edge. He bites down on his own lip, _hard_ , before tentatively pressing his cock against Ell’s slick hole.

“F- _fuuuuck_ —”

Makoa has to take a moment _again_ , because yeah it’s been a while, but Elliott especially is just so exquisitely _hot_ and _tight_ around his dick and —

Usually, he takes his time, knows that his size takes a partner a considerable amount of time to get used to, no matter how much prep they put into the act. But Elliott is no average roll in the hay, that much has already been made clear, and he doesn’t even seem keen to give _himself_ time to adjust: rather, tightens his calves around Makoa’s neck, drums his heels against the top of his spine and hisses “ _more_.”

It’s impossible to not acquiesce, not with the way Ell cries out in delight, nor the way his hands bury themselves in Makoa’s hair, his words a barely comprehensible babble made up of Makoa’s name and ‘ _oh_ ’, and ‘ _yes_ ’, and “ _God_ ”, and most of all, “ _please_ ”, as Makoa slowly slides inside of him.

Which — he does with _surprising_ ease. He stares down at Elliott in a mix of mild concern and disbelief. Elliott’s face is flushed red and panting heavily, his eyelids fluttering, the hand fisted in Makoa’s hair clenching and unclenching before coming down to cup Makoa’s jaw with surprising tenderness.

He opens his eyes then, locking their gaze and Makoa is taken aback by the warmth he sees simmering there.

Then, Elliott flashes him a wicked smile, hand falling so that he skims his fingernails down Makoa’s neck, sinks them into the thick muscle of his shoulder.

“So,” he murmurs, “you gonna show me if these dreams of mine about you live up to the fantasy, or what?”

Ell has proven Makoa wrong every time he’d thought the other man might be being too overly-ambitious thus far, he shouldn’t be all _that_ surprised that he had managed to bottom out so easily. Yet — Makoa finds his mouth dry, unable to quite find an answer as he trembles ever-so-slightly over Elliott. Because, _God_ , it’s entirely new being able to sheath himself inside a partner all at once like this, and it’s still difficult to believe this is even _happening_.

As if Elliott could hear his thoughts, he tightens his grip on Makoa’s shoulder, heaving a pithy whine as he throws his head back against the pillow. Makoa can’t help but marvel at the long line of his neck, the way his throat bobbed in time with each heady breath, his whole body shuddering beneath him.

“Makoa, _please_ ,” he begs, “just fuck me, _please_. I’ve been — _hnng_ — been wanting _this_ so damn _long_ , _please_. _Fuck_ _Makoa_ this whole time.

Sure, Mirage flirted with everyone; that was practically a given. Makoa had always laughed off his ridiculous pick-up lines, the same way everyone else did, couldn’t deny that he enjoyed having such a handsome man first witn him but never gave it much thought besides that.

However, what with the way Elliott was staring up at him now, as if he _himself_ couldn’t quite believe that he was so fortunate that this was actually happening _either_ —

Maybe Makoa should have taken what he’d dismissed as _Mirage_ simply being Mirage a little bit more seriously.

He gives an experimental thrust, just the barest snap of the hips, and Elliott _groans_ , rolling his own up to meet Makoa’s movements

“C’mon,” he urges, “I — I can take it, come _on_.”

Makoa decides to stop doubting Elliott unless proven otherwise, because truly, he had made good on every insistence of just how much he could handle thus far.

He skims his hands over Ell’s calves before gripping them and gently easing both back against his chest. Elliott follows his lead eagerly, spreading his legs that bit further apart so as to accommodate Gibraltar’s girth — all the while, never breaking that positively enraptured gaze with the man baring over him.

Makoa takes a deep breath, pulling his length nearly the entire way out before pushing back in; still trying to set a deliberate, slow pace, in spite of Elliott’s insistence.

“F—- _ffffffuuuuuckkkkkkkk _— Makoa — _aaaa_ ….”__

Elliott hisses, gritting his teeth as he releases his grip on Makoa, letting himself collapse back against the mattress, before propping himself up on his elbows.

He meets Makoa’s eyes for just a moment, gaze burning and brilliant, then drops his gaze down to where they’re joined. His swollen lips part with a whimper, pretty mouth hanging open and panting. .

Satisfied that Elliott was — true to his word — not showing any signs of unbearable discomfort, Makoa shifts that bit forward, running his hands up and down the insides of Ell’s thighs, keeping them spread wide as he starts to fuck him slow.

Given his earlier urgency, Elliott is complaining about the pace significantly less than Makoa would have anticipated. His hurried frenzy of greedy demands has come a halt, instead staring down transfixed at where Makoa’s cock is thrusting in and out of his ass.

Makoa chances a glance down for himself and -- oh, _God_ , it becomes all too obvious why Elliott is struggling to look away. The _stretch_ of him around Makoa’s cock, the silky heat of his hole, wet with lube, Ell’s own neglected dick dripping precum onto his abdomen and trickling down his chest at this angle -- Makoa lets out a loud groan, concerns regarding remaining quiet well and truly forgotten now..

He reaches out instinctively, grasping Elliott by the back of his neck and pulling him in for a kiss. Elliott makes a desperate noise, balancing himself shakily on one elbow so that he can lace his fingers in Makoa’s tangled hair, his mouth parting immediately for Makoa’s seeking tongue.

Each time Makoa draws out, then drives back in, he can _feel_ Elliott’s muffled gasps between each thrust, the urgent tugging of his hair, the free hand that wraps itself around his broad form, travels down his spine, finds Makoa’s ass and _squeezes_.

This was -- this was -- God, nothing at all like Makoa had ever felt before. Now that he was more confident he wasn’t actually hurting Ell, he gradually ups the tempo -- hips snapping forward, the sound of damp skin slapping against skin filling the room. He sucks Ell’s lower lip into his mouth, biting gently and basking in the pleased noise that produces -- before breaking away from his mouth altogether, and diving for his neck instead.

He licks a long line up the thick line of muscle of Ell’s neck, falling a little bit in love with the way he can feel Elliott’s breath hitch beneath his tongue, the way his body continues to twitch and writhe beneath him. Elliott’s fingers dig into his ass when Makoa trails his mouth down his neck, pressing a line of kisses before experimentally nipping at the soft flesh of where neck meets shoulder.

Ell’s grip tightens in Makoa’s hair, pulling him closer whilst hissing in delight. Well -- Elliott _did_ wear those neck scarves of his more or less all the time, so it wasn’t like the broadcast of the Games tomorrow would reveal any... _markings_ , that could be picked up on by the tabloids, so --

He draws his skin between his teeth, biting oh-so-lightly and lapping with his tongue gently, before releasing, pressing a quick kiss and beginning anew on an as-of-yet-unmarked stretch of skin. All the while, Elliott whimpers excessively, clenching tighter around him, head falling back against the pillow with a cry.

Makoa pulls back, appraising, and sure enough there were a smattering of red blemishes which he recognises well enough to know that they would yellow and darken to a tell-tale shade of purple bruises in a matter of hours. He’s shocked when something behind his chest twists in greedy delight as he thinks about Elliott out on the field later, in front of all the other competitors, the hundreds of cameras, the _millions_ of viewers, who won’t know what he’s hiding: just a secret to be kept between him and Makoa alone. Elliott Witt -- _Mirage_ \-- the undeniable media darling and crowd favourite of the Apex Games, who was currently pinned beneath Makoa’s frame, his normally perfectly-groomed hair now tumbled into a tousled mess falling across his perfect face -- and just gazing up at Makoa in rapt _awe_.

It’s enough for that spark to burst into a roaring flame, and he swears, dropping his hold on Elliott’s legs so as to dig his hands into the pillow on either side of Ell’s head, then well and truly begin to fuck him _hard_.

Elliott yelps with delight, releasing his hold on Makoa and falling back onto the bed. He replaces Makoa’s grip with his own, grasping the underside of his own thighs, trying to spread himself that bit wider to take it _all_.

Oh, God. Makoa’s never been with a man quite like Elliott -- no one quite this eager, this willing, this entirely able. It has him gritting his teeth, shaking the loose strands of hair out of his eyes, and adjusting the angle of his thrusts, hips pistoning faster now, sharper, more purposefully and -- finally having the desired effect of striking El’s prostrate over and over again, going by the way Elliott throws his head back and practically _screams_ Makoa’s name.

“P-please…” Elliott begs, eyes wet with desperation, sweat pouring down his brow as his hips rock up urgently to meet each motion of Makoa’s, “f-f-fuck, I --”

Words seem to fail the other man, cutting off with another strangled cry when Makoa slams inside him again, but they’re not necessary. Makoa isn’t going to last much longer either.

He nips the shell of Ell’s ear, brings his mouth close, breath hot against the side of his face.

“Touch yourself,” he instructs him, voice coarser than usual with the strain.

Elliott doesn’t need to be told twice. He releases his hold on one of his thighs, locking his leg around Makoa’s back instead and reaches between them to wrap his hand around his touch-starved cock. The sensation of that alone has him keening again, and Makoa can feel his legs tightening as he begins to jerk himself off furiously..

“Makoa -- oh, fuck, yes, yes, like that, _fuck_ , Makoa, I’m, I’m -- ah -- _ahh_ \-- Mako _aaaa_ …!”

Elliott just about remembers in time that they’re not alone, flinging his forearm over his mouth and biting down.

He comes with a barely muffled high-pitched cry, his back arching off the bed as cum spurts over both his and Makoa’s torso.

Just watching Ell’s face crumple like that, the way his eyes squeeze shut, the warmth of his cum spilling down his chest -- as _well_ as the feeling of all those muscles clamping down around his dick to the point sparks are flying behind his eyelids -- sends Makoa headfirst over the edge as well. He comes inside of Ell, burying his moans in the side of his neck; incidentally, the side of his neck he hasn’t marked. _Yet_ , he finds himself thinking, as he tries to muffle the sound of his orgasm by biting down and tugging at the skin caught between his teeth. That in itself seems to set Elliott off _again_ , hissing a fresh set of curses and barely-comprehensible noises that resemble Makoa’s name into the flesh of his arm, his hips fucking up into nothing, pumping out the last of his load.

They lie like that for a moment, trying to catch their breath, hips still twitching and bodies still shuddering with the occasional aftershock. Makoa is content to linger after he pulls out, lazily licking Elliott’s neck, whilst Ell eventually gathers himself enough to relinquish his teeth’s grip on his own arm, brings it instead to start stroking shaky fingers through Makoa’s damp hair.

Usually, Makoa likes to take his time basking in the afterglow, pulling a partner close and slowly coming down together. It’s especially tempting now, given just how surprising it is that someone like Elliott is responding with such an unexpected level of intimacy.

But an idea strikes him and, hell, Makoa had allowed himself to give into his reckless side tonight already, right? He might as well commit to it.

He pushes himself up on his elbow, and smiles down at Elliott warmly. He’s surprised by just how tenderly Elliott returns it, humming a contented noise when Makoa reaches out and tucks some of his mess of curls behind his ear.

Makoa’s grin turns suddenly devious, before diving down between Elliott’s legs and lapping at the cum that was dripping out of his well-fucked hole.

“Oh, _fuck_!” Elliott yelps, burying both hands in Makoa’s hair urgently. Makoa chuckles, fully aware of the heat of his breath against the still sensitive skin, before getting back to the task at hand. He licks the cum leaking out of him, teasing his tongue over the other man’s perineum before returning to his ass and pushing inside the tight ring of muscle. He curls his tongue inside, enjoying the taste of himself, not to mention Elliott’s thighs quivering on either side of his face, the nails sinking into his scalp, the gibberish spilling from his lips -- and _especially_ how every so often, he could just about hear that clever mouth choke out ‘ _Makoa_ ’.

He circles his ring with his tongue one final time, before pulling out and crawling back up over Elliott, licking his lips with a wink. Elliott looks a wreck, face flushed an obscene of crimson, hair a mess, panting heavily and just staring at Makoa as if he had just witnessed some kind of goddamn miracle.

Which -- _God_ , as the post-orgasm haze begins to lift and reality starts to seep back in, Makoa finally becomes acutely aware of their surroundings once more. He casts a hurried glance over his shoulder and --

“Holy…”

“W-what? Is something -- ?” Elliott props himself up on his elbows, his legs falling loose from Makoa’s shoulders to follow his gaze in alarm.

“No, no, it’s just -- he’s _still_ asleep.”

Octavio lay in the same position as he had from the moment Makoa had first been woken from his slumber, still snoring contently and apparently utterly oblivious to everything that had transpired in the room that night.

“Ajay always said he could sleep through an earthquake,” Elliott mutters in disbelief, peering through the darkness at the younger man. “But…well. Uh. I guess we should be...grateful?”

Makoa turns his gaze back towards Elliott, and something tugs behind his chest when he’s greeted with a smile that’s surprisingly soft, and almost...shy.

He can’t help but mirror it back, cupping his cheek and drawing him in for a lazy kiss, shuddering a little when he feels a _purr_ vibrate through Elliott’s chest -- be it from the taste of Makoa’s cum on his tongue, post-coitus afterglow, or just plain pleasure from the simple, intimate act of kissing.

Whichever way, Makoa is happy.

Very, very happy.

Eventually -- _eventually_ , and with great reluctance because _damn_ , Elliott’s mouth was a place he could truly get lost in -- Makoa pulls back, just enough to check his watch.

“Ah, shit.” He winces a little at the accusing glare of the screen. “5.45. That’s...one hour, fifteen until breakfast call.”

Lowering his wrist, he’s taken aback to find Elliott just smirking up at him.

Shocked all the more when legs snap around his waist and with surprising strength, flips the two of them over, so that he’s straddling Makoa’s waist and pinning both of his wrists against the mattress.

“I think,” Elliott hums, innocently running his thumb over Makoa’s lips, “I can think of better ways to fill the time than sleep, don’t you?”

Makoa grins, hands flying up to bracket his hips and _squeezing_.

“Let’s just call it getting in some early morning training.”

***

Caustic muffles a yawn with the back of his hand as he makes his way down the dimly-lit halls of the Apex HQ, shooting a glance at his watch as he lowered his arm.

Hm. It would appear that yet again he’d become so wrapped up in the wonderful intricacies of his work that the night had gone and entirely passed him by. Yes, yes, he knows that neglecting the unfortunate necessity of sleep might impact his performance in the Games tomorrow, however -- he was confident that the sacrifice would ultimately prove to be worth it.

With the alterations he had made to his formula over the course of the night, he believed he had finally managed to accomplish adding an additional three seconds to the effect his Nox gas had on his opponents’ senses. More than enough time to locate wherever they were trying to hide themselves and their feeble coughs, then cock a Peacekeeper to their brow.

He pushes open the door to the dorm, still feeling pleased with himself. It was a mite shameful to admit, but it had been some time since he’d made such remarkable progress. He was looking forward to the Game today, and having the opportunity to observe the results of his experiment on some real life subjects.

Octavio is snoring in his bed as always -- incapable of quiet even when _asleep_ , much to Caustic’s constant irritation. Yet, it’s not the only strange noise disturbing the room. He halts, realising that it’s coming from over in the direction of his _own_ bed and --

Oh, for the love of _science_.

Having Mirage as a bunkmate has always been a true test of his already limited patience: between the man’s insistent flouncing around the room either next-to or entirely naked, to the inane jabbering as if he thought the two of them were actually _friends_. He may have some merit inside the arena, but outside of it, the man stood low in his esteem.

He glances at the pile of clothes beside his bed, and then up at the trashing bedsheets in the bunk above his. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

All things considered, he shouldn’t have ever put anything past Mirage.

But _really_. He would have expected more of _Makoa_.

Caustic backs out into the hallway, and closes the door behind with with a grumble.

Another sleepless night won’t kill him.

But if they faced him in the arena in a few more hours, Mirage and Gibraltar would not be so lucky.


End file.
